The gates of King's Landing stood open beneath a pale morning sky.
Cold light spilled across the stone, catching on steel and banners, turning everything into something sharper… more final.
This was not a departure of ceremony.
This was a departure of consequence.
Michel Arryn stood at the front of his column.
Armor fitted.
Cloak resting against his shoulders.
Beside him, as always, stood Lord Yohn Royce, silent as the mountains he came from.
But in front of him—
Stood his family.
Jon Arryn.
Lysa Arryn.
Robert Arryn.
Lysa stepped forward first.
She did not wait.
She did not hold herself back.
She pulled Michel into her arms.
Tight.
Desperate.
As if she could stop time itself by refusing to let go.
"You just came back…" she whispered, her voice breaking. "And now you leave again…"
Tears fell freely down her cheeks.
"Two moons…"
Her hands trembled against his shoulders.
"Must you go so soon?"
Michel did not pull away.
He let her hold him.
For a moment—
He was not a knight.
Not a lord.
Not the Demon Falcon.
Just a son.
"Mother," he said softly, "I will return."
But she shook her head.
Not in denial.
In fear.
Because she knew this world.
She knew what roads could take from you.
Behind her—
A smaller figure stepped forward.
Eyes red.
Voice trembling.
"Brother…"
Michel looked down.
Robert Arryn stood there, clutching his sleeve.
"Don't go…"
His voice cracked.
"I don't want you to go…"
Michel knelt slowly.
Bringing himself to his brother's level.
He placed a hand gently on the boy's head.
"I have to go," he said quietly.
Robert shook his head fiercely.
"No!"
Tears spilled down his face.
"You just came back!"
Michel pulled him into a firm embrace.
The boy clung to him.
Small.
Warm.
Fragile.
"I'll come back," Michel whispered.
"Stronger."
Robert sniffed, holding on tightly.
"You promise?"
Michel closed his eyes for a brief moment.
Then opened them again.
Steady.
Certain.
"I promise."
Slowly—
Reluctantly—
Robert let go.
Lysa stepped back.
But her expression had changed.
The sadness remained.
But now—
There was anger too.
Old anger.
Deep-rooted.
"You go to the Riverlands…" she said, her voice tight.
"My father's lands…"
Her lips pressed together.
The memory lingered.
The forced marriage.
The past she could never fully forgive.
Michel saw it.
Understood it.
But he said nothing.
Because some wounds—
Could not be spoken away.
Jon Arryn stepped forward then.
Calm.
Steady.
A presence like stone.
He did not embrace Michel.
Did not show emotion openly.
But his hand rested firmly on his son's shoulder.
"You are no longer a child," Jon said quietly.
"You carry more than your name now."
Michel met his gaze.
"I know."
Jon studied him for a moment.
Then nodded.
"Then go."
A pause.
"And stay safe."
Simple words.
But heavy.
Because they carried everything a father could not say aloud.
Michel inclined his head.
"I will."
The moment lingered.
Then passed.
Michel turned.
Walked toward his horse.
Mounted in one smooth motion.
Behind him, the banners of House Arryn lifted in the wind.
Three hundred knights ready.
Waiting.
He looked forward.
Not back.
Because if he looked back—
He might stay.
The gates of King's Landing stood open.
The road stretched beyond them.
Long.
Uncertain.
Dangerous.
Michel Arryn exhaled slowly.
Then gave the command.
"Ride."
Ten days on the road changed the air.
The dust of the Crownlands gave way to green.
The harsh edges of King's Landing softened into rolling fields, winding rivers, and the quiet rhythm of life that belonged to the Riverlands.
The banners of House Arryn appeared on the horizon like a pale storm.
Falcons on blue.
Moving with purpose.
At the gates of Riverrun, guards straightened.
The horns sounded.
And the gates opened.
Michel Arryn rode in at the head of his column.
Calm.
Unshaken.
Watching everything.
Before he had even fully dismounted—
A voice called out.
"Michel!"
Edmure Tully approached quickly, a wide grin breaking across his face.
"My nephew!"
He clasped Michel's arm firmly, warmth clear in his tone.
"Welcome to Riverrun."
Michel returned the grip.
"Thank you, Uncle."
Edmure stepped back, looking him over.
Up.
Down.
Then laughed.
"Seven hells… they weren't exaggerating."
"You've grown into a warrior."
Michel gave a faint smile.
"I try."
Edmure waved a hand dismissively.
"No 'trying' about it. I've heard enough stories to know better."
His grin returned.
"Come. Tonight—we feast."
Michel nodded.
But his eyes had already moved past Edmure.
Toward the castle.
Toward the man waiting within.
The halls of Riverrun were alive with the sound of water.
Ever-present.
Flowing beneath the stone, around it, through it.
A castle that lived with the river—
Not against it.
And there—
Seated within the great hall—
Was Hoster Tully.
Older than Michel expected.
Weaker than he should have been.
Though not yet broken—
Time had already begun its quiet work.
Michel stepped forward.
Slowly.
Respectfully.
"Grandfather."
Hoster Tully looked up.
His eyes, though aged, were sharp.
They studied Michel carefully.
Searching.
Measuring.
Then—
A faint smile.
"Well…"
His voice carried both strength and wear.
"You have the look of an Arryn."
A pause.
His gaze softened slightly.
"But the eyes…"
He leaned forward just a fraction.
"Those are Tully eyes."
Michel inclined his head.
"I am honored."
Hoster chuckled softly.
"Good."
He gestured lightly.
"Come here, boy."
Michel stepped closer.
Yohn Royce followed behind, silent as ever, his presence steady and watchful.
Hoster's gaze flicked briefly toward him.
"Lord Royce."
Yohn inclined his head.
"My lord."
Then Hoster looked back to Michel.
Long.
Carefully.
"You've made quite a name for yourself."
Michel said nothing.
Because he knew—
This was not praise.
This was evaluation.
Hoster leaned back slightly.
A quiet breath leaving him.
"Good," he murmured.
"House Tully does not produce weak blood."
Edmure laughed from the side.
"And clearly, neither does House Arryn."
The tension eased slightly.
But only slightly.
Because beneath it all—
Something remained.
Expectation.
Michel turned his gaze slowly across the hall.
The banners.
The stone.
The river beyond.
This place…
He thought quietly.
Will not survive the coming war untouched.
But this time—
He was here.
And things would be different.
"Come," Edmure said again, clapping his hands lightly.
"Tonight we celebrate."
Michel nodded.